


A Town Called Whinging

by Saucery, switchknife (Saucery)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst and Humor, Attraction, Bargaining, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Crack, Cultural Differences, Drama, Guns, Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Negotiations, Opposites Attract, POV Alternating, Ridiculous, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2004-05-01
Updated: 2004-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/switchknife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rugged Sheriff Potter and the high-class dandy, Draco Malfoy, clash wits. And, er... other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Town Called Whinging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> If there’s one era of history about which I haven’t a smidgen of education, it’s the American Old West. This isn’t meant to be a historical account, anyhow—it’s a pretty freestyle, fantastical sketch of a crazy alternate universe. What can I say? The Wild West doesn’t get any wilder than this.
> 
> Written for Dorrie6 on her birthday, way back in 2004!

* * *

 

If he shut the curtains against the dust, he’d melt in the sweltering heat—but if he let them fall open to the hot blast of wind, he’d have his cabin whipped with sand.

No matter what he did, this was a ride through hell. Dirty and sweaty and rotten. Draco Malfoy, tugging at his cravat and grimacing as sweat trickled down his neck, wondered what on earth had made him accept this assignment in the first place.

Ah. That’s right. Father’s little _game_. A test of strength, he called it. A chance to rise up the political ladder. A chance to follow the illustrious, noble Lucius Malfoy as the next General Manager of Riddle Railroads.

Draco’s mouth twisted at the thought. He’d left his cool bungalow in England, its fresh green grasses and sweet, silken sheets with a different nightly selection of sweet, silken boys, for—what? This barren, desolate desert? And all because of his ambition. Pesky thing, that.

“We’re almost there, sir,” said Pettigrew, the watery-eyed accountant who was Draco’s sole companion in this wilderness.

Draco slid expressionless eyes to him. “You have, I assume, set me up in a comfortable hotel?”

Pettigrew’s nose twitched, once, like a rat’s. “Yes, sir. The Excelsior. Best in town.” He cleared his throat. “Such as it is.”

 _Such as it is._ Draco sneered. “I’ve seen the reports. Such a pity that this hell-hole should occupy precious land. I’m sure the ruffians there will be easy enough to buy out.”

“Did you read my budget, sir?” Pettigrew pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose, blinking at Draco eagerly. “If your bargaining goes well, we’ll buy the whole town out for less than quarter of the estimated profit—”

“A quarter is too much,” Draco snapped. “And what makes you think we’ll have to buy out the _whole_ town in order to get rid of it?”

Pettigrew blinked again. “Sir?”

Draco smiled, suddenly languid, and stretched one long leg until its foot, encased in the very finest of gleaming brown leather, rested on the opposite seat. Right next to Pettigrew’s thigh.

Pettigrew gulped.

Draco’s smile widened. “All we have to do is buy out a significant fraction of the residents, Pettigrew. Enough that the owners of businesses have little demand to survive on—little enough that they, too, have to leave. Or face bankruptcy.”

“Taking away the demand,” breathed Pettigrew.

“Indeed. The businesses will close, the buildings will empty, and eventually the town will be quite ready to be razed to the ground.” Draco flicked at his sleeve, as if at a fly. “As it deserves to be.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pettigrew reverently.

 _Corpulent fool._ “My father has entrusted me with clearing the town at _minimum_ expense, Pettigrew. Minimum. You understand? A quarter is too much.”

“A quarter is too much. Yes, sir. Understood.”

God. Why on earth had he agreed to take his father’s accountant along instead of his own? Zabini was younger, cleverer, far more glib of tongue—oh, that tongue. Draco had pleasant memories of it.

He was just about to lose himself in another bout of reminiscence when the carriage lurched, and the wheels sounded like they might tear right off at the force of the jolt.

“What…” Draco began to ask, but just then the carriage stopped, and he could hear the clop-clopping of the horses’ hooves fall silent.

There was a series of creaks as the driver got down from his seat at the front, and then the carriage door was being knocked at, politely, and in an unrefined American accent, the driver said: “Mister Malfoy? We’re here, sir. Little Whinging.”

 _Little Whinging_. Draco felt an unaccustomed and entirely unexpected surge of excitement. So he were here, then. At this place, this opportunity, no longer just a dot on the map, inconveniently in the way of Tom Riddle’s cross-continental railroad. This was real. The pit of iniquity. The hell of—

“Sir?” Pettigrew, sounding tentative as usual.

“I’m all right,” Draco snapped again. “Let us out, driver.”

The brassy knob turned and the door swung open—and Draco squinted, into the bright sunshine, as he smoothed his cravat and his hair, and put on his cheerful poker face.

“Ready to play cards, Pettigrew?”

A nervous twitch behind him. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

And then he was climbing out, onto the rickety wooden step and down onto the road, the hideous, filthy road, smiling as if he truly wanted to be here.

 

* * *

 

Harry had been at the station again, listening to old Crouch mutter insanely through the prison bars, when he heard the news.

 _Damn_ , had been his clearest thought at that moment. _Damn_.

“You won’t believe it, Sheriff,” babbled Colin Creevey, deputy and semi-professional photographer. He was waving a newspaper in Harry’s face. “You know Riddle? The man who’s swallowed up all those towns in Texas? He’s sendin’ someone here. To buy us out like he’s done the rest.”

It wasn’t as surprising as it should have been, but it was still sooner than he’d expected. Much sooner. “Who is it?”

“Not Lucius Malfoy, this time. Riddle’s sendin’ Malfoy’s _son_ instead.”

“His son?”

“Reckon so. See here.” Colin flattened the newspaper on Harry’s desk, on top of the prison ledgers, pointing at a small article by the bottom right-hand side. He was all but quivering with excitement—as though finally, _finally_ , something of import was happening in Little Whinging.

Or coming to it.

**RIDDLE SEEKS TO EXPAND RAILROAD INTO WHINGING**

“God damn,” Harry said aloud, but refrained from repeating it when he saw Colin twitch penitently out of the corner of his eye.

Riddle the Rich. Riddle the Ruthless. Riddle the Railroad Royal. Sending another angel of death this way—apparently, Malfoy Junior had left England a month ago, to sail to the nearest port, from where he’d spent a week traveling by carriage. Just about getting here, then.

Interesting, wasn’t it, that the papers were always late? Too damn late to be of any help. To anyone, but especially to him.

“I knew he’d be making tracks here, but not so soon...”

Colin leaned in and stared at the newspaper, as if he’d missed something. “You did?”

“Yep.” Harry jerked open his desk’s half-rotted drawer, ignoring the handcuffs there, and reached for the rolled-up map. He spread it out on top of the newspaper and tapped the ribbed line that ran down the centre. “Riddle’s been working his way due south. I thought he’d buy out a few more towns before he came to us, but maybe he thought he’d assure himself of us ’fore wasting money on the rest.”

“But he won’t buy us out!” exclaimed Colin, innocent as always. “We ain’t leaving this town! We built it!”

“Building it’s not the same as keeping it,” Harry said quietly, and then he heard the rolling of carriage wheels on the road outside, and the neighing of horses, and felt his blood run cold.

 _Not the same as keeping it_.

Harry nestled his gun into its holster, ran a perfunctory hand over his badge, and stood up.

Maybe there’d be a few here who’d sell out for the money, like in the other towns—but Harry knew his people, from Reverend Snape to Miss Granger to the Weasleys to Florian the barkeep—and he knew that they wouldn’t leave this town at gunpoint, let alone for cash.

Colin was right.

He’d just have to make sure it didn’t get to gunpoints, is all. Riddle wasn’t known for taking no for an answer.

So Harry marched out of the station and into the dusty afternoon, just in time to witness Draco Malfoy, representative of Riddle Railroads and son of the notorious Lucius Malfoy, arrive in a black carriage fit for a king.

 

* * *

 

Draco managed not to wince as his Italian leather shoes met the uneven dirt road. He knew that he had to be seen smiling, well-intentioned, here to save the townspeople from a life of drudgery.

He looked carefully at the street around him.

Several of the town’s residents stared back.

He saw a scowling young boy scurry past with a paper parcel held tight to his chest. A much taller, red-headed young man tipped his hat back and looked at Draco narrowly, his hands patting down an aged, ugly horse. Draco espied an old geezer getting his beard shaved through the window of what appeared to be a barber’s shop, and a surprisingly lovely, if dirty young woman was leaning out of another window, bargaining loudly with a shoe salesman outside.

Draco managed not to wince when he saw those shoes.

Eventually, his eyes landed on the humble jail—no sign on it to distinguish it for what it was, apart from a peculiar aura of watchfulness—and from the shadowed front porch he thought he saw someone watching him, someone tall and broad and hidden, who moved halfway into the sunlight as if to oblige Draco’s scrutiny.

Draco caught his breath.

He’d heard of them, naturally, the cowboys—fanciful tales his father brought home with him to England—not the cowboys who were simple herders, but the ones who _fought_ , who were grizzled and rough and had bodies tough as leather. Whose hands knew the grip of a gun so well that they were callused to fit around a barrel, and who… who…

“Pettigrew,” he muttered to his accountant, eyes still not leaving the half-shadowed man. “Who is that?”

“That’s the sheriff, sir,” replied Pettigrew. “Ha—”

“Harry Potter,” said Draco. “Yes. Yes, I know.” His mind immediately began pulling out all the details he’d read about this man, from the files his secretary had handed to him back in London, but he’d never had a picture, before.

As Potter shifted again and let the sunlight glint off his sheriff’s badge, Draco saw that the man’s hand was nestled calmly at his waist, on the holster of a gun, as though it were the shoulder of a trusted friend.

“I don’t think I’m being welcomed here, Pettigrew,” Draco murmured, but he felt a strange, hot spark of interest flare in him—curiosity of a kind he hadn’t felt since childhood, to see what these wild men were like, these barbarians. Before he knew it, he was striding forward, swift and bold and confident, disregarding Pettigrew’s terrified squeak behind him.

The sheriff walked forward, too, more slowly, more cautiously—and Draco’s pulse did a double-trip when he noticed two green eyes fixed on him, eyes green as poison and glinting shard-like in the sunlight, another kind of weapon unsheathed.

He held out his hand when he got close enough. Made sure he still had his smile. “Thank you for welcoming me to your town, Sheriff. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” Calm voice, so calm, so deep. “And I’m not welcoming you.”

…Well. If _that_ wasn’t a bucket of ice water. He’d expected hostility, but he’d expected it to be more polite. _Barbarians_ , said his father’s specter in his head, and Draco managed to keep his smile. “I suppose you aren’t.” He saw another youth emerge from behind Potter, newspaper in hand, and Draco only had to catch a glimpse of it to realize what had happened.

Bloody journalists. Reporting ahead always ruined the fun of surprise. Of surprising other people, at least.

“I’m telling you, Malfoy, that you aren’t welcome here—we aren’t going to sell our town, and we’re not moving out of it.”

Blunt. To the point. Perhaps there was something admirable in these barbarians, after all. But Draco didn’t fail to note that Potter’s speech was different to what he’d heard from the haggling shoe salesman; this was an educated English, as though Potter had been brought up properly before choosing, for some inconceivable reason, to live in a place like this.

Draco couldn’t imagine what was worse—being _born_ to the lower classes, or _choosing_ it.

He saw the jagged scar above Potter’s eyebrow, the rough stubble of his chin, his callused fingers poised so gently on his gun. Draco felt that hot curiosity again, flushing his face far more than the weather had done, and suddenly he knew just how he’d play this game. “I’m merely here to make sure that the townspeople get a fair deal.”

 

* * *

 

It was a shock, seeing the Malfoy heir dismount from that carriage. Harry didn’t know what he’d been expecting—a snake in a suit, perhaps—but what he saw was a man about his age, still young, smiling as though this was a trip to the circus.

 _Ignorant_ , Harry thought viciously, feeling at the same time a sense of relief that they’d sent him a fool to deal with—but then that smiling face turned his way, and Harry saw those pale, pale eyes, and he knew that he wasn’t dealing with a fool.

Poker face. Game face. Not transparent, but obvious enough to be meant as a signal to those wise enough to perceive it. Sharp features and fine, gilt hair—generations of stifling blue blood, most likely—and a shirt smooth as silk over skin just as smooth. A snake in a suit, after all.

Harry was immediately on his guard. Malfoy seemed to have spotted him, even though Harry was only watching from the shadows—and Harry stalked forward slowly, watching Malfoy stride forward as well, still with that wide, false smile on his face.

It wasn’t difficult to be intimidating. Harry did it with the occasional ruffian who came to town, asking for trouble. Harry didn’t have to draw his gun every time; he just had to draw attention to it.

Sure enough, Malfoy’s eyes flickered to it—but instead of the caution Harry was used to seeing, he saw a most peculiar spark of interest.

Perhaps the Malfoys didn’t _know_ guns that well.

But something about the way Malfoy looked at him suggested otherwise. It made Harry clam up, be careful, grind his teeth. It felt like being attacked, even though Malfoy was all effeminate grace, dressed as daintily as possible for a man—so daintily, given his features, that he might almost be a woman.

 _Pansy_ , Harry’s mind supplied, _nancy_. Schoolyard names. Names that were as far away as possible from everything Harry was. It only put him more on edge, this bizarre, disconnected thought, that had no relevance at _all_ , but it made Harry’s pulse beat faster, anyhow.

Malfoy came up to him and held out a soft, white hand… but Harry wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole.

“Thank you for welcoming me to your town, Sheriff. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” He managed to keep his voice calm, as calm as possible, despite the anger that was boiling his blood. What right did Riddle have to send this… thing… here to take over his town? Their town. To cave it under a railroad line like so many others, so that there was nothing left of their beloved buildings, old and weathered and strong, but a handful of ash and dust. “And I’m not welcoming you.”

For a moment, Harry saw those grey eyes widen—the closest this snake ever got to a flinch, he’d bet—but Malfoy recovered quickly, back to game face again. “I suppose you aren’t.” Malfoy glanced past Harry to Colin for an instant, taking note of the newspaper, but he managed to make his glance look friendly, and his harmless smile never faltered.

Best to get this over with. Harry was in no mood for games. Malfoy was studying him with oddly glittering, proprietary eyes, now. It made something in Harry’s chest jostle, awaken, and he didn’t like it one bit. “I’m telling you, Malfoy, that you aren’t welcome here—we aren’t going to sell our town, and we’re not moving out of it.”

“I’m merely here to make sure that the townspeople get a fair deal.” How solemn that thin face looked, suddenly. How sincere.

“And I’m merely here to make sure they don’t start shooting before the deal-making’s over.”

Those keen eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me, Sheriff?”

Harry set his shoulders back, nice and easy, and relaxed his stance. “Just giving you fair warning, is all.”

“Fair warning.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, very quiet, and his gaze was very sharp. “I’m sure you like doing things the fair way, don’t you, Sheriff?”

There was a silence in which they stared at each other. Harry felt a strange tension, like the heavy, crackling air before a storm, settle between them. “I’m a man of the law, Malfoy. I like keeping things fair.”

“Of course you do.” Malfoy was solemn, for another second—and then his lips curved, and his eyes lightened, and between one moment and the next he was laughing.

The tension between them split and shattered—and Harry gaped, or tried not to, while Draco Malfoy laughed and laughed and laughed.

“I like this man,” gasped Malfoy to the pudgy assistant—servant?—who stood behind him. “I really do.”

Harry took an involuntary step backward.

Malfoy’s eyes swung to him again, so quickly that it felt like being pinned. While Malfoy’s face was still amused, Harry knew that Malfoy had just managed to threaten him, much more cleanly, obliquely and elegantly than Harry himself had done.

He forced himself to stand still as Malfoy sauntered toward him—but Malfoy didn’t extend his hand to be shook. Malfoy drew closer, and closer, until Harry could smell his delicate, sweat-heavy perfume, and Malfoy’s mouth was a hot whisper against his ear.

“You love your puny town, don’t you, sir knight? Sir Sheriff. But it isn’t your town, anymore. It’s mine. My father’s. Riddle’s.”

That mouth moved from his ear to his jaw like searing velvet, so satiny, so sheer, and Harry felt his eyes widen, knowing that to the others it would only look as though Malfoy was having a close word. _Very_ close. Oh, god—

“You see, I like playing games, too, Potter. But I’m no great believer in being _fair_.”

This last was breathed, in a shiver of exhalation, dangerously close to Harry’s mouth.

And then Malfoy stood back, still smiling, his face as warmly affectionate as if he’d greeted a brother. Or a friend. Or a— 

“Good day, Sheriff,” Malfoy said loudly, jovially, before twirling around and gesturing imperiously at the driver to start unloading his boxes.

“What did he say?” Colin inched up to Harry now that the cat was away. “Did he say ’bout Riddle? ’Bout how much Riddle was willing to pay?”

“No,” said Harry, “no.”

He went back into his station, mind strangely blank and stomach roiling—and as he listened to Colin chatter excitedly, he sat at his desk and stared at the prison ledgers and tried, desperately, to ignore the fact that he was hard.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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